


Calm Before The Storm

by Syntheticpalindromes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: I'm so sorry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntheticpalindromes/pseuds/Syntheticpalindromes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick twiddles the cable of his mom’s bedroom phone around his ring and pinkie fingers, mmm-ing and making noncommittal noises into the receiver of the phone.</p><p>Pete has been jabbering on for, Patrick checks his watch briefly, two hours about some guy he met last night at a club he went to in Des Plaines and Patrick is quite frankly sick and tired of hearing every time Pete falls in love for the night on some dirty dance floor.</p><p>{A Peterick Fic Based On The Song 'Calm Before The Storm'}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm Before The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very sorry 
> 
> very
> 
> very sorry
> 
> (i'm also sorry for mistakes it's late omg)

Patrick twiddles the cable of his mom’s bedroom phone around his ring and pinkie fingers, mmm-ing and making noncommittal noises into the receiver of the phone.

Pete has been jabbering on for, Patrick checks his watch briefly, _two hours_ about some guy he met last night at a club he went to in Des Plaines and Patrick is quite frankly sick and tired of hearing every time Pete falls in love for the night on some dirty dance floor.

Every detail is meticulous as Pete speaks wildly about the colour of the lighting as he spots the guy and ‘my body was fucking pulled like magnetically to him’ and ‘God Trick, his eyes were planets and I was in their gravitational ring, it was cata-fucking-clysmic’.

Patrick heaves a sigh and Pete stops, “Am I boring you man?”

Patrick slides down the wall outside his front window, telephone cable stretching from the bedroom as he sits atop the balcony above his front porch, hoping that out here he’d be less likely to be heard by his mom.

“No, it’s fine, I’m just tired, carry on.” 

Patrick hates lying but he hates making Pete feel bad even more.

It’s another twenty minutes of Pete’s tiresome, and ridiculous, metaphors about this random club guy before he starts to talk about going back to the guy’s place.

Patrick really doesn’t want to hear this. 

He really doesn’t.

Pete carries on.

“So I’m not drunk, I’m trying that whole ‘not-drinking-thing’. But he’s pretty far gone and he’s like pulling on me and calling me ‘baby’ and ‘angel’ and it was pretty funny man. We’re like full on making out on his bed before he sort of nudges me with his dick and holy shit, Trick man, I may not have caught his name during any of this, but I know one thing; he’s well hung.”

Patrick hangs up immediately.

He practically throws the phone back onto the cradle, making a racket and having a semi-tantrum because he did not need to think about Pete and a guy who in his mind is one of those scene kids that tend to follow Pete about when they go to get food, like they could go out to eat anywhere and at least two girls or boys will pop out of nowhere and start talking to Pete about Arma Angelus, blinking big blackened eyes at him and Pete just laughs when Patrick sinks into his seat and sulks.

He’s not jealous because jealousy would mean he maybe wants Pete to go to clubs with him then end up blowing him in Pete’s bedroom away from anyone’s prying eyes or ears.

He strops in his bedroom with Prince blastin on his stereo system till his mom tells him to turn it off for the night and go to sleep and Patrick doesn’t feel very pop-punk.

Or like a rebellious, scene kid that Pete would want to kiss.

He lies in bed and his imagination is much worse and pulling his pillow over his eyes in an attempt to block out the mental images of Pete’s mouth pressing against the sharp curve of a skinny boys hips (Patrick’s hand vaguely brushes over the fat covering his hips) and his nose rubbing against pelvic bones as he grins up at a guy who Patrick imagines his flat ironed, bleach blonde hair and large darkened eyes that scream pretence. 

Pete would probably grin that shit-eating grin and he’d know that what he’s doing is good and makes the guy feel good and Patrick hates it.

Why didn’t he just tell Pete that he didn’t want to know?

The next morning Pete calls round and after sweet talking Patricia manages to wrangle Patrick out of the house and into some obscure coffee shop around the corner, which must have been there a good few years, but Patrick’s never seen it before.

Pete plays with a packet of brown sugar, tipping half the contents onto the tabletop before licking a wide stripe up his palm and flattening his palm to the table, then licking the sugar off his hand and Patrick literally cannot take him anywhere.

“Sorry about yesterday.” Pete says after licking his hand clean and taking a few swigs of his espresso, “You should just tell me when I’m going too far.”

Patrick shrugs and tries to give Pete the most convincing smile he can as his fiddles with the rim of his hat nervously, “I guess I just...Don’t need to know all the gory details about every person  
you want to fuck. Like, it’s cool whatever you want to do but don’t relay everything back to me. Can’t you tell Andy or Chris or someone that won’t get so...” He gestures vaguely with his hand and tries to play off the fact he almost admitted he feels jealous. 

Shit.

He feels jealous.

Pete’s eyebrows shoot up and his mouth spread into the most annoying smirk Patrick’s ever seen grace the bassist’s face, “Lunchbox, are you jel of me kissing other boys that aren’t you?” He foot flies out and kicks Patrick in the shin and Patrick gasps and grabs his leg.

“Ow, fucker! what the hell?”

Pete laughs his braying laugh and in a sing-song voice says, “You wanna kiss me. Patrick wants to kiss me.”

A mother of two looks round and Patrick meets her eyes as she gives him a ‘please control your boyfriend’ kind of look and Patrick wants to scream bloody murder.

“Pete I don’t want to fucking kiss you, you’re just letting your massive ego get the better of you. What I really want is to go home and practice for the gig we got in DM. That’s what I want.”

Pete has none of it and bites his lip as he giddily murmurs, “I didn't do anything with that guy in the end. He had a monster cock and _was_ a monster cock. I left and went home and jerked off.” He grins, “I thought about you.”

Patrick’s latte comes out his nose.

As Patrick coughs and hacks and tries to regain some composure Pete nods and taps a finger to his lips, “It’s not the first time but like, I guess that doesn't matter. You know you’re my favourite Patrick. No one will ever come close to being you and if you want to be jealous of me fucking dumb emo kids then that’s totally going to be in the past. You just gotta admit that you are jealous and that you want to do the dirty with me on the couch in your basement, surrounded by all your guitars and that weird purple trumpet you own.”

Patrick flushes bright red, the tips of his ears burning as he mumbles, “Fine.” He huffs, “I am very jealous of the fact you feel you can whore yourself about the clubs of Chicago when I am right in front of you and perfect for you, despite a few design flaws.”

“That’s right baby...Wait, design flaws, what?”

Patrick snorts, “I’m fat and balding. Dude, c’mon.”

Pete rolls his eyes and smiles dopily. Dreamily. Like he’s in love with the idea of Patrick’s worst and most embarrassing flaws, “I love that about you man. Makes you all different and beautiful. You’re perfect, now can we go and make out somewhere?”

Patrick nods jerkily.


End file.
